Anthea Carson's Blog - Posts Tagged "chess"
Becoming teachable: in writing and in chess
Today I realized I know nothing about writing. I remember the time I realized I knew nothing about chess. After that I went up 500 rating points, because I became teachable.
So what changed with chess, for me, that I became teachable?
I remember I used to get offended when people would make fun of my moves at the chess club. When I first went to the club, I was very proud of my chess ability. After all, I could beat most people I knew. But I had never played in a chess club against tournament chess players. They cleaned my clock there at the chess club (no pun intended--wait, only a chess player would get that pun--never mind) and then the men (always only men back then in the 90's--wait--it's still pretty much only men) would stand around laughing at how bad my moves were.
"What did you play Bishop to h7 for?" They would ask, scoffingly.
"Because I felt like it!" I would respond, angrily.
"But that move makes no sense," they would say every week.
"Not all my moves need to make sense," I would respond.
"It doesn't do anything," they would say.
"Not all my moves need to do something."
"Yes they do," nearly the entire club would say in unison, whether they were watching my game or not.
I stubbornly held my views. After all, one of the reasons I loved chess was the feeling of independence I had about what I was doing. Every move was my idea, my thoughts, nobody could tell me what to do. I just lost because I didn't see the knight fork, or the checkmate, or the queen skewer, that's all. It had nothing to do with making nonsense moves and wasting time.
I was also very hurt at all the laughing and jokes about my moves. But I refused to stop going to the chess club because, well, there was nothing I liked as much as chess except maybe possibly writing and I couldn't dance. And the writing groups were boring. You had to listen to other people's writing.
Then one Tuesday night down at the Acacia I played a mysterious man in a black trench coat with a high collar. I shook his hand, and then proceeded to lose a piece nearly every move and get checkmated in a way where I knew fully well that I had no chance at any point during the game. Every one of my moves was forced, after about move 5 or so. I had a sense of awe. I sat there with my mouth open staring at my checkmated king.
The mysterious man leaned over and whispered, "I'm obligated to tell you that I'm a chess expert, and you never stood a chance."
"How did you do that?" I asked.
"Let me just give you some advice. Never leave your pieces unprotected," he said, and then he pulled his collar over his face and headed toward the door.
"What is your name?" I asked him.
"Chris Brunt," he said. "You'll see me again."
And with that he left the club.
At that moment I realized I knew nothing about chess. I started asking for help. I stopped getting offended when people laughed at my moves. I started asking them what I should have done instead. "Why?" became my favorite question. I soaked up knowledge like a sponge. I studied tactics books because someone suggested it. I studied endgame books, opening books, whatever I could get my hands on. After a while I found myself laughing when I would see a player make a move that made no sense and did nothing. That is, unless it was Chris Brunt. Then I knew I just didn't understand the move.
That was the feeling I had last night when learning from a local writer from Pikes Peak Writer's Group named Deb Courtney. She very graciously agreed to take a look at a few pages from my novel Call me Jane
It was clear in listening to her analysis that she knew what she was talking about. She kept her perspective on the reader at all times including the marketability, the purpose of the scene with respect to the story, how to accomplish that purpose, and of course the clarity. I felt I was able to tell her the goal that I had for the passage I wrote, however idiosyncratic that goal might be. Sometimes clarity was not my goal, and I felt that she was able to hear that, and with the reader in mind give me just the right solution that would work for my individual writing personality.
"This passage is confusing. Since people are going here and going there, how about you draw a map. Then you can reference your map while writing, so that you will be able to help the reader know what's going on?" she suggested.
"Great idea," I said. And then I said, "Writing is fun. This editing process isn't fun."
"That's right. Writing is fun. This is editing," she said.
I could tell she'd heard it all before. I knew she truly knew what she was talking about. I could just tell, like with that mysterious stranger in the black trench coat. Now I have that same feeling. I want to soak up all there is to learn about writing like a sponge. I want to hear all the things that are wrong with a piece of writing that I do. I bet I'll go up 500 rating points.
Deb Courtney is the managing partner of Courtney Literary. http://courtneyliterary.com/
So what changed with chess, for me, that I became teachable?
I remember I used to get offended when people would make fun of my moves at the chess club. When I first went to the club, I was very proud of my chess ability. After all, I could beat most people I knew. But I had never played in a chess club against tournament chess players. They cleaned my clock there at the chess club (no pun intended--wait, only a chess player would get that pun--never mind) and then the men (always only men back then in the 90's--wait--it's still pretty much only men) would stand around laughing at how bad my moves were.
"What did you play Bishop to h7 for?" They would ask, scoffingly.
"Because I felt like it!" I would respond, angrily.
"But that move makes no sense," they would say every week.
"Not all my moves need to make sense," I would respond.
"It doesn't do anything," they would say.
"Not all my moves need to do something."
"Yes they do," nearly the entire club would say in unison, whether they were watching my game or not.
I stubbornly held my views. After all, one of the reasons I loved chess was the feeling of independence I had about what I was doing. Every move was my idea, my thoughts, nobody could tell me what to do. I just lost because I didn't see the knight fork, or the checkmate, or the queen skewer, that's all. It had nothing to do with making nonsense moves and wasting time.
I was also very hurt at all the laughing and jokes about my moves. But I refused to stop going to the chess club because, well, there was nothing I liked as much as chess except maybe possibly writing and I couldn't dance. And the writing groups were boring. You had to listen to other people's writing.
Then one Tuesday night down at the Acacia I played a mysterious man in a black trench coat with a high collar. I shook his hand, and then proceeded to lose a piece nearly every move and get checkmated in a way where I knew fully well that I had no chance at any point during the game. Every one of my moves was forced, after about move 5 or so. I had a sense of awe. I sat there with my mouth open staring at my checkmated king.
The mysterious man leaned over and whispered, "I'm obligated to tell you that I'm a chess expert, and you never stood a chance."
"How did you do that?" I asked.
"Let me just give you some advice. Never leave your pieces unprotected," he said, and then he pulled his collar over his face and headed toward the door.
"What is your name?" I asked him.
"Chris Brunt," he said. "You'll see me again."
And with that he left the club.
At that moment I realized I knew nothing about chess. I started asking for help. I stopped getting offended when people laughed at my moves. I started asking them what I should have done instead. "Why?" became my favorite question. I soaked up knowledge like a sponge. I studied tactics books because someone suggested it. I studied endgame books, opening books, whatever I could get my hands on. After a while I found myself laughing when I would see a player make a move that made no sense and did nothing. That is, unless it was Chris Brunt. Then I knew I just didn't understand the move.
That was the feeling I had last night when learning from a local writer from Pikes Peak Writer's Group named Deb Courtney. She very graciously agreed to take a look at a few pages from my novel Call me Jane
It was clear in listening to her analysis that she knew what she was talking about. She kept her perspective on the reader at all times including the marketability, the purpose of the scene with respect to the story, how to accomplish that purpose, and of course the clarity. I felt I was able to tell her the goal that I had for the passage I wrote, however idiosyncratic that goal might be. Sometimes clarity was not my goal, and I felt that she was able to hear that, and with the reader in mind give me just the right solution that would work for my individual writing personality.
"This passage is confusing. Since people are going here and going there, how about you draw a map. Then you can reference your map while writing, so that you will be able to help the reader know what's going on?" she suggested.
"Great idea," I said. And then I said, "Writing is fun. This editing process isn't fun."
"That's right. Writing is fun. This is editing," she said.
I could tell she'd heard it all before. I knew she truly knew what she was talking about. I could just tell, like with that mysterious stranger in the black trench coat. Now I have that same feeling. I want to soak up all there is to learn about writing like a sponge. I want to hear all the things that are wrong with a piece of writing that I do. I bet I'll go up 500 rating points.
Deb Courtney is the managing partner of Courtney Literary. http://courtneyliterary.com/
Game of Kings
I wanted to write Game of Kings because I have spent 20 years playing Tournament Chess and I thought people might find this world intriguing, because of the nature of the game and because of the strange assortment of people I met and got to know.
I chose to use a template plot, and picked my favorite, the tried and true structure of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. I did not use the character names, but just the personalities and plot points. I’ve always been intrigued by the brilliance of these plot devices. I love how Lizzy and Mr. Darcy are thrown so believably together by her sister’s love interest in his dearest friend. The chemistry is built into the relationship by the fact that though they dislike each other, they are confined together in a closed space for lengths of time.
Chess tournaments are ripe for this. We often joke that we are really like a big dysfunctional family. Even if you hate each other you might find yourself paired against each other in a game, forced to sit across from each other for as long as 7 hours for a game.
Another feature that I like about Game of Kings is that I didn’t write this one alone, I wrote it as a team with the wonderful editor I used for The Oshkosh Trilogy, DJ Natelson, an author whose work I respect and admire. I believe that working alone I could not have achieved the level of success that Game of Kings has had, because I simply would have put way too much chess in there, and alienated the bulk of my readers.
After all, this book is not for chess players, it is for fans of Jane Austen. And most chess players, as you will learn from the book, are so obsessed with chess they rarely raise their head above the board to look around at the world, much less the romance novels contained in it.
